Twelve Miles to Go

I steered my bike around the leftover puddles the sun had forgotten to evaporate and headed twelve miles to the train station.
I wove through the small town streets of Massachusetts with only my trusted Google directions.
Mom and Pop bakeries, chipped paint houses, and a little league baseball game--my mood was optimistic for the first few miles. It was sunny out and everyone was friendlier.
Google sent me through a gated community, “no trespassing” signs were ominous, but there was no way to avoid it and still catch my train.
The trail was guarded by a row of foot high rocks to ward off cars. I carried my mom’s old white road bike over the barrier.
My skinny road tires were no match for the sandy rock trail. I skid and slid my way through the first mile and cursed Google Maps.
Barren trees on my right and a vast stretch of farmyard on the left. At twilight the sun was just a yoke in the horizon and all the crops were vintage.
The trail began to dip and rise in abrupt little jumps and the trees surrounded me completely.
I tried to race along but the constant up and down of the trail was suited for someone capable of navigating black diamonds and I needed a beginner trail. I toppled over.
A large puddle covered the width of the path. I carried my bike through the branches and prickly bushes. My dirt caked legs now had candy cane red scratches all the way down--six miles to go.
The slightest loss of balance would send me falling in the thick sand; it happened often.
When I came to an overpass it was time to abandon this bike “trail” if I would have any hope of making the train. I followed my GPS in a new direction.
My legs were on fire. It felt like I was constantly going up hill.
Then my rear tire popped.
I continued to peddle. Thirty minutes to make it four miles, I could make it. Right?
Wrong. I waited two hours before the next train arrived, but I learned a great lesson: the worse the circumstances, the better the story and the adventure.